


Burning the Cookies

by ProsperDemeter



Series: 20 Days of Holiday Fics [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: College Student Peter Parker, Established Relationship, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Peter Parker Can't Cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProsperDemeter/pseuds/ProsperDemeter
Summary: Harry had been in Greece on a business trip for close to six months at that point - Oscorp was making a deal or something with a smaller medical conglomerate on one of the islands and the board had insisted that their new CEO be present for the negotiations - and Peter wasn’t exactly sure how to handle life without him being a stone’s throw away.
Relationships: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
Series: 20 Days of Holiday Fics [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035498
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	Burning the Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> Day 9!
> 
> Warning for implied steaminess at the end. Read at your own risk.

“ _Decorate the tree and light the Christmas lights,_

_but without you baby none of this seems right.”_

[ **_Dear Santa by Mr. Little Jeans_ ** ](https://youtu.be/BXL7BgG-RLU)

* * *

“I swear I didn’t mean to burn the cookies.” Peter insisted, out of breath from his rather frantic run around the small apartment kitchen at six in the morning, fire extinguisher propped on the table as a _just in case_ measure. It had been a present from May when he had moved in, and Tony had only upgraded it when he had seen it on his first, and only, visit to the dingy little thing. Why, exactly, Peter would be making cookies - or _failing_ at making cookies, if he were being honest with himself - was purely out of stress. It was finals week at Empire University, winter in New York, and crime always seemed to pick up in the city around holiday season. Simply put, he was _exhausted_ and when Peter was exhausted he tended to do questionable things. Like baking cookies at six in the morning while video chatting with his boyfriend. He narrowly avoided setting off the fire alarm by cracking a window to let the biting cold air in and the smoke from the oven _out_ and turned off the oven with a flourish. He dropped down onto a chair - one of _two_ that Peter owned because, if he were to be honest, the Bugle didn’t exactly pay the bills and rent in New York City was _atrocious_ \- and sighed miserably at his own misfortune. 

“You never _mean_ to burn the cookies, _fuck_ ,” Harry hissed at his _own_ splattering dinner and stuck his finger in his mouth. It was six _at night_ for him, a clear sort of solidarity between the two of them. It was sort of their thing, although Peter _knew_ Harry would rather Peter didn’t call him daily so early in the morning. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to him, Harry would reassure, but, rather, that Peter so desperately needed sleep and _six in the morning when you just got in at four isn’t sleep, Parker, merde_ . “You _need_ to sleep.” 

“I _needed_ the cookies.” Peter argued and then grabbed a terribly burnt and blackened one to snack on anyway. It tasted like one of Harry’s charcoal pencils and Peter instantly regretted all of the choices in his life that had led to that moment. “I don’t know why I always mess them up! I follow the instructions.” 

“Yeah, you just forget that they’re in the oven.” 

“I set a timer!” 

“And then _ignore_ the timer.” Harry finally looked up at him and, honestly, the phone screen did nothing for him. He looked so much _less_ through the phone, with the darkening Greek sky behind him and all of the lights on in his, much more expensive, kitchen. Harry had been in Greece on a business trip for close to six months at that point - Oscorp was making a deal or something with a smaller medical conglomerate on one of the islands and the board had _insisted_ that their new CEO be present for the negotiations - and Peter wasn’t exactly sure how to handle life without him being a stone’s throw away. Even as kids, before their relationship had stumbled into romance, Peter had been able to find and locate Harry like a lighthouse. Now, though, he was too far away for Peter to get to if anything were to happen to him. And Peter _knew_ it was dumb. He _knew_ Harry was safe and healthy and, logically, that the chances of anything happening to him in Greece were about the same as the chances of anything happening to him in New York but… 

Peter worried. 

It was just who he was. 

But, regardless, the phone screen did _nothing_ but make Peter miss Harry more and, damn it, the food he was making looked _really good_. “I’ll get you something from Uber Eats.” Harry said with that tone of voice that told Peter he was teasing and took whatever he had been making out of the frying pan and put it onto a plate. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter waved away his concern and munched on his burnt cookie. 

It tasted worse on the second bite. “I bet you only have peanut butter, those burnt as fuck cookies, and _maybe_ a package of ramen in your entire shoebox apartment.” 

Peter _missed_ him. He missed how well Harry knew him, he missed hearing him sing in the kitchen, missed his stupid _constant_ doodling, missed the way he switched languages without even knowing it, flowing from English to French to Italian to some that Peter couldn’t even place without a blink. He missed the way he threw money at a problem because he didn’t know any better, missed his stupid expensive taste, missed the constant bickering and sass and the way he _tasted_ and moved and… Peter sighed. Just a few more weeks. That was the plan, anyway. Just a few more weeks. “Okay, you might be right _but_ -.” 

“But nothing, Pete. You need more than all of that _combined_ with your metabolism and you know that. I’m ordering groceries for you.” 

“Harry.” 

“No. What was your last paycheck? Barely enough to cover rent?” It was a familiar argument. When Peter had insisted on leaving May’s apartment (for logistic reasons - school, work, and everything else was much closer to his current apartment than May’s), Harry had _insisted_ that Peter move into _his_ place in Upper Manhattan. Only, well, there was no way that Peter would have been able to pay even _half_ of the rent that Harry did. He had left before they could settle the argument, had left Peter with a key to his place too, and Peter had kept it, but decided against using it. “You can get me back for it later.” 

They both knew that even if Peter was going to get him back for it Harry wouldn’t accept it. He was probably the only person Peter would accept _that_ from, too. If Tony tried Peter would donate the food he bought. If May tried Peter would steadfastly ignore her attempt to spend _her_ hard earned money at _him_ . Harry, though… Peter knew he meant nothing by it aside from caring. And he knew that Harry had the money to spend. And he also knew that Harry could and _would_ hold a grudge if Peter did anything less than consume the food he had bought. 

Peter eyed the terribly wrapped present he had gotten Harry just a week earlier. There was no way _that_ would make up for the amount of groceries Harry had gotten him in the six months he had been living without May. He sighed again, moved himself from the rickety chair and onto his bed, the phone held up above him in a way that he could, almost, pretend that it was _Harry_ hovering over him and not him through a phone screen. “Okay, tell me about patrol.” Harry said as he balanced the phone on an empty wine bottle Peter had seen on the table and sat across from it to eat. 

It was a tradition of theirs. To eat together. 

Peter ignored the way his stomach grumbled - Wade had insisted on buying him a chimichanga or ten just a few hours earlier and he had abstained from food for _much_ longer. He was going into Stark industries that morning, anyway, and Tony always made sure that Peter had more than enough to eat. He was pretty sure it had been put in his contract that Tony would feed him while he was working so he didn’t try to push the food off to anyone else. He could wait another few hours. Peter propped his head up on his arm and rolled so that his phone rested against his second pillow and smiled cheekily into the camera. “So Wade came along right…”

* * *

Finals week was proving to be the death of him. 

Spider-Man, taken out by college finals week. He could see the headline - written without talent by Jamison, of course - now. MJ would write his eulogy, both as Peter Parker and Spider-Man and load them with puns that would leave everyone reading laughing and crying at the same time. 

He groaned and dropped his head down onto the library table miserably. 

He had a headache, he was _so tired_ , and that was even _after_ Matt had forced Peter into giving up his patrols of the city for the next two weeks. Even _after_ May and Tony had conspired to turn his internship days into extra study time for him. Harry had even been quizzing him over video-chat when they had free time. And it wasn’t that Peter didn’t feel _ready_ … he was just _tired_. 

He had prided himself in never falling asleep in the college library before, but he could feel his eyes start to droop. “Wake up,” he muttered to himself and, slowly, sat up from his slumped position. He took a moment to check his phone, hopeful for a message even though he knew the chances of receiving one were slim. Just the same daily text thread he had going to May and MJ - she wanted them over for dinner the day of their last final and Peter was genuinely looking forward to May’s burnt, homecooked, lasagna. 

No messages from Harry. 

He tried not to be disappointed. 

Harry had told him the night before that he had a day full of meetings and wouldn’t exactly be available for most of it and Peter _knew_ how taxing those were on him. For one, Harry hated wearing suits (even if they _did_ look _so good_ on him) and, for another, he hated being called Mister Osborn. It reminded him too much of Norman and, for everyone, it was best if he was reminded of Norman as little as possible. Peter gathered his things, if he was going to risk falling asleep he might as well do so at his own apartment. 

Riding the subway was an experience, as it always was, and Peter avoided getting jostled every two seconds on instinct alone. He stayed standing, held onto the pole in the middle of the car with a loose grip (he didn’t want to fall and rip it out _again_. There were only so many times he could use faulty construction as an excuse before it got suspicious and Peter had passed that number three poles ago.), and played a memory game on his phone. It was his own fault he was so tired, really. Peter rarely caught more than a few hours of sleep even when he wasn’t out responsible for patrol. 

He hadn’t bothered butting in on the way Matt and the other Defenders (or _Wade_ , even) patrolled his part of the city for the past week, but he _had_ kept an eye on the news all night, every night. He wasn’t used to giving up that sort of control as Spider-Man, not even to someone as experienced as Daredevil. The doors opened and Peter followed the flood of people out. 

He found his apartment with his head down, thanked his odd brand of luck for the spider senses that stopped him from walking into anything or anyone, and fished his key out of his pocket. 

His first clue to something not being exactly _right_ was the smell of food in the hallway outside of his apartment. 

It could have been his neighbor, except the _sounds_ were coming from past his door. And Peter had gotten rather good at distinguishing what noises were _his_ noises and what belonged to someone else. 

Had he left the oven on? 

Or had someone - probably Tony, or maybe even _Wade_ again - broken in? 

He checked his wrists for his shooters, clicked them on and, slowly, pushed the key into his lock and swung open the door, ready to attack and…. “Hey! Chill yourself there, spider-kid! Your web formula belongs nowhere near my food.” 

“ _Harry_?” Peter dropped his bag by his feet and swept the slightly shorter man up into a bone crushing hug. “What are you doing here! You’re supposed to be in Greece!”

And it _was_ him - maybe slightly tanned and with a fresh haircut but _him_ . He was wearing a pair of Peter’s sweatpants, a Harvard t-shirt and his glasses but it was _him_ . Harry’s hair was still wet from Peter’s shower, his blue eyes looked about as tired as Peter felt, but, _god_ , Peter had never felt anything as good as with Harry in his arms after six months. “Hey, bug.” His nose pressed against Peter’s pulse, and his lips brushed over his jaw before he hugged him back, not as tight but still tight around his waist. 

Contrary to the smell, the oven was _off_ and he had already moved the food onto the shoddy kitchen table Peter had inherited from a yard sale. And it smelled delicious, whatever it was, savory and heavy and just the sort of thing that would put Peter in a food coma, but Peter wasn’t planning on letting go for anything. “You’re not supposed to be here for another week.” Peter pulled away - didn’t let go, though, no Peter was never letting him go again. He, instead, kept an arm strong around Harry’s waist and rubbed a thumb over his freckle covered cheek in amazement. 

Harry shrugged sheepishly. “I caught an early flight.” His eyes flickered down to Peter’s lips and then back up to his eyes. “You burnt your cookies.” 

“I _always_ burn my cookies.” 

“You only make cookies when you’re stressed.” Harry shrugged as though the observation was nothing when, in reality, it was _everything_ to Peter’s sleep addled mind. 

His lips pulled up into a smile while his heart melted inside of his chest. Whatever chill had settled into him while Harry was gone had all but disappeared. He sucked in a deep breath from his nose, pushed the tip of it against the warmer, redder, and slightly upturned tip of Harry’s and pressed their foreheads together. Peter took a moment to breathe, felt the cold wire of Harry’s glasses press against his face and then turned his head, just enough, to catch his lips in a passionate kiss. 

Peter had almost forgotten how much he _missed_ kissing Harry until he was doing it again. The other man wasn’t soft like the girls Peter had kissed, and he didn’t hesitate to put in just as much fight and fervor as Peter did. He didn’t kiss like his life depended on it, either, no, Harry kissed like he had all the time in the world. He was slow, and deliberate, and, like most things in their relationship, he forced Peter to match his pace and take his time. It was a good thing, and he gave up control whenever there was need to, but right then, right there, it was an equal give and take situation. They had both missed each other, they had both been through six months without the other, and Peter was _sure_ that they would end at one point in his bed but, at that moment, he was just happy to stand there and feel the pressure of Harry’s lips on his own. “I missed you.” Peter said between kisses, and felt rather than heard the vibration of Harry’s laugh against his mouth. 

“I missed you too, Parker.” He replied only once air had become an issue - and Peter could have gone on longer but he knew where Harry’s limits were. Harry’s fingers trailed over the side of his face, dipped into the curve of his jaw and then he kissed, softly, the skin beneath both of Peter’s eyes. Peter could feel his eyelashes brush against his skin and Harry smelled like _his_ soap and that did special things to Peter’s feelings. “You look so tired.” 

“Finals.” Peter supplied and melted into the curve of Harry’s body when his arms around his neck pulled him back in tight. “I can’t believe you’re home.” 

“I can’t believe you’re calling this place _home_ .” Harry sassed but it was without heat. He held on just as tightly as Peter did and Peter _knew_ , he _knew_ , that Harry wasn’t nearly as comfortable with physical affection as he was. He was well aware of the lack of it Harry had been given growing up and he, also, knew just how touch starved the other man had been for decades until Norman had passed. But Harry wouldn’t push him away. Not unless he really had to. “The temperatures on your oven are all messed up. The medium is actually high and I think each hundred is off by fifty.” 

“I don’t care.” Peter muttered into the skin of his neck and then kissed the spot just under his ear that had always made him shiver. 

It didn’t fail. His breath stuttered and Peter smirked, just a little. “I didn’t get you a present, by the way.” 

“Cheap.” Peter nipped the skin gently and then smoothed over it with his tongue. Harry’s fingers weaved into his hair and held him in place. He pulled back with a cocky smirk and dragged his teeth, instead over Harry’s bottom lip before pulling back completely. “You’re the best present anyway, Har.” 

“Sap.” 

Peter hummed. “Bed?” 

“I _just_ made food.” The protest was weak and he followed regardless. His back bounced up and down when Peter pushed him and then crawled on top. He got lost in his body after what had felt like much too long.

* * *

He awoke to the sun shining through his curtains, a draft following through with the wind and his comforter bunched over his shoulders. Peter found he couldn’t move, not that he thought that was a problem when he looked down at the peacefully sleeping man on his chest. He could hear Harry’s breathing, could feel as his chest rose and fell slower than Peter’s own. It was snowing, the first one of the season, and Peter had a final that afternoon that he should be worried about. 

But he found he wasn’t. 

He felt awake, for once, and warm and comfortable. 

He wasn’t moving for the world. 


End file.
